


Enliven

by notyourown



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anniversary, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:09:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9520088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notyourown/pseuds/notyourown
Summary: Years passed, deaths were forgotten, children were born, wives were buried, and they were them again. Sherlock had felt it, he had known, when John moved back into their home: this was them again.Sherlock and John. Reborn. Re-established.





	

They jumped into a cab, leaving the comfort and warmth of 221B behind. January was cruel and relentless, London was lulled by darkness and frost, Rosie was sound asleep somewhere in Molly's arms, there were crimes being orchestrated all around them, but they could wait. All of it could wait. The world halt to a pause tonight, because tonight wasn't just any night.

Tonight was their night.

Seven years ago today, they met, unaware; oblivious, really; to the turbulent and unpredictable future ahead of them. Seven years ago, everything changed, although nothing changed at all: It was just a flatmate. Nothing to dwell over. And he didn't.

They spent their days together, working, laughing, running, almost dying. Who he had thought of as just a flatmate, somehow turned into something far more important: he turned into a revelation. Love stopped being a myth, just like that. He was in debt to that man, his blogger, his doctor, his friend. He was also cursed by this strange exposure, it was a constant itch underneath his skin, a ruthless reminder that no matter what he did, there was simply no getting away from this. John could die, he could leave, he could never see him again; but the memento wouldn't falter, wouldn't change its course, it was written inside of him, engraved, vicious, loud, painful. _You love him._

An affliction. A fatal burden.

It had proven itself fatal over and over again. Seven years. He died so many times he had stopped counting. He wouldn't have lived, he knew this, if it wasn't for John. His life was not his own, that's what the inscription in his mind read. Not his own, John's.

He had no issue with that. Not anymore, at least. There had been a time when he was able to deny it, he was stupid enough, young enough, careless enough. He spent two years in Eastern Europe trying to deny it, trying to delete it, but his mind would always race back to that roof, John looking up at him, watching him die.

He didn't die that day, but in a way, he didn't live either. He was left with picking up the pieces of his shattered life, one by one, until he reached John. But John wasn't John anymore, John wasn't his blogger, his doctor, his friend. He was somebody else's now, somebody's lover, somebody's family.

To Sherlock, all what was left of John was a silent curse. Engraved, vicious, loud, painful. _You love him._

He did, he does, he kept loving him. And he got him back.

Years passed, deaths were forgotten, children were born, wives were buried, and they were them again. Sherlock had felt it, he had known, when John moved back into their home: this was them again.

Sherlock and John. Reborn. Re-established.

So when he watched John take his seat across from him at Angelo's, he knew it was worth it. All of it. The pain and the guilt and the separation. John's anger, John's sorrow, John's resentment. It was worth it because it brought them back here, back to where they first decided there were paths worth crossing, and those paths led them to each other, led them back here. Sherlock felt a strange fondness to John's suggestion to celebrate their anniversary at Angelo's: somehow, there was an unusual logic to John's thinking and, so, here they were, with their past behind them, shaping them, but not defining them. They got each other back. The world stood still tonight, waiting for the next step.

John smiled at him while opening the menu, a candle was lit between them. Neither complained. It was intimate, a truly worthy celebration of their time together, and John just kept smiling, his navy suit making the ocean in his eyes ever more prominent, and Sherlock smiled back, fondly, too softly, but he couldn't help it. Even more so, he didn't want to help it. The world stood still tonight, all for the two of them, and the world deserved some acknowledgment. More importantly so, John deserved it.

"I'm really glad you proposed this. It's nice, being back here, after all we've been through." He spoke, words sounding foreign to him, confusing him. John's smile widened, a surprised smile, an appreciative smile and Sherlock watched him, immersed in the moment completely.

"God, 7 years, Sherlock, how the time flies." John's words were soft on his lips, affectionate, certain. There was no word in Sherlock's mind to describe the man across from him but _happy_.

"Time is an  imaginary concept, but I guess I can let that slide tonight. It is a special occasion." He said nonchalantly and John lauged before he took a sip of his wine. "I do wish you wore suits rather than those horrible jumpers more often." Sherlock added and John's eyebrows rose.

"Is that your way of saying I look good tonight?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Take it as you will."

"Okay, then, thank you. You look rather good yourself. But you already know that."

Sherlock laughed. "I do." He raised his glass and John followed until they clinked. "To the very best of times, John."

"And even better ones to come." John added. They drank.

Before they knew it, the bottle was empty and replaced by another one. It was midnight before they were home, both a little dizzy, drunk on the wine and the atmosphere of the cosy, family restaurant. They crashed into their chairs, laughing over something they hardly even remembered, and Sherlock looked at John, at his John, finally happy, finally carefree. Tomorrow they will wake up, the weight of the real world crashing onto them, suffocating them, but not tonight. The world stood still tonight.

"I do love you, John." The laughter had vanished, his face was tender and motionless. John looked at him, silent, breathing.

"I know. I know." A pause. Sherlock smiled at him. "And I love you." John cleared his throat.

"You do. I can tell. You smile when you look at me. You make me tea and force it down my throat. You secretly check my room for drugs every Monday. You love me, John, there is nothing covert about it. I knew from the start. The part I had struggled with for a long time was accepting just how effortlessly I loved you back." He calmly stated, glancing all over the room, tracing his fingers over his forehead, trying to sound coherent, certain, because he was. He might have been drunk, but he was sure all the same. He loved him tonight, he loved him last night, he'll love him tomorrow all the same. There was no shame in that, not anymore. It was John, it was always John: he kept him right. He helped him see. Feel. Accept. Admit. He helped him cope.

John blinked, his eyes widened. He blinked again. "Wine makes you sentimental."

Sherlock smiled.

"I like it." John added.

There was silence in 221B, a long and comfortable silence, before John spoke again.

"You know." He paused. Sherlock looked at him. "If you were so sure about this, about me loving you and you loving me back-" He gestured between them. "-why didn't you-" A pause. "-why don't you do anything about it?"

Sherlock frowned. "Like what?"

"Like-" Another pause. "I don't know, what people do when they're in love." He muttered, shrugging his shoulders.

"In love?" Sherlock's question was tentative, quiet, lingering in the air.

"That was what you meant, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was, but I didn't think you'd pick up on that." He shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, that's what you get for underestimating me." John laughed and Sherlock monitored him. There was no trace of embarrassment, of unease, on his face. He was just smiling, content, just as he had been for the entire night.

"You-" It was a question unable to be articulated, scared and hopeful at the same time. There was weakness behind it, a struggle, but luckily for Sherlock, John knew him, John saw this, he read it on his face. His John. So much smarter than he gave him credit for. Intuitive. Gorgeous.

John nodded. "Yes."

"Since when?"

"Since the start, I think." He scratched his neck. "But I was too hung up on not being gay, I think it had something to do with Harry and our parents and the army and by the time my brain caught up with my heart, pardon my sentimentality, you were gone, dead, buried. Then there was grief and then there was Mary and then there was grief again. And now there's you and me again and maybe it could finally be our time, you know, our time to-" He shrugged, holding back the tears Sherlock could see forming in his eyes. His John. His best friend. His curse. His soldier.

"Our time to make it right." Sherlock finished the thought on instinct. John smiled at him, a tear now rolling down his cheek. Sherlock reached over and wiped it clean, shaking his head in disapproval. "No, John, no crying. Time to make it right, remember?" They were face to face now, the distance between them closed almost entirely, the smell of red wine lingering in the air. John cleared his throat again, just like he always did when emotions got the better of him, and Sherlock watched him reach for his cheek and cup his face tenderly. Sherlock barely had a moment to smile before his heart started racing, heat in his body reaching new heights when there was pressure on his lips, a caressing movement, a breath of content, a barrier breached.

Sherlock and John. Reborn. Re-established. Vivified. Enliven.

Sherlock and John, making it right. 

**Author's Note:**

> My own way of celebrating and honouring 7 years of this beautiful relationship. I hope it is a worthy memorialization.


End file.
